


Healthy Indulgence

by apidologist



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drunkenness, Established Relationship, Frottage, Lap Sex, Lapdance, M/M, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 12:11:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3850519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apidologist/pseuds/apidologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes has endured a blow to his pride, and Watson knows he possesses just the right assets to cheer him up. Some form of Victorian lap dance ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Healthy Indulgence

Upon returning to Baker Street, admittedly somewhat inebriated after a late night with an old friend from St Bart’s, I was rather surprised to find Holmes upright in his armchair, still awake after the long week I knew he had undergone. After so many nights of not seeing him at all or hearing him come in until I left for my practice the next morning, I expected him to be away pursuing some criminal across the city, but hoped he was merely in his bedroom, exhaustion getting the better of him at last.

Pleased though I was to see him, that positive feeling quickly dissipated as I heard his screeching on the violin (how he can mistreat that instrument in such a way when he has the talent to play beautifully is beyond me completely), and realised he must have been sitting in that attitude for quite some time by the smoke-haze of the room and pile of cigarette butts at his elbow. He had even placed the brandy decanter, which I noticed was significantly emptier than the last time I had seen it, atop the table beside him for easier access.

I touched his shoulder and asked if he was unwell, for it is not usually his custom to celebrate the successful conclusion of a case by drinking alone. He ignored my question, changing the pitch of his horrid cacophony. I knew I would not be able to sleep over such sounds, and resolved that I would need another drink before being able to decide what to do about my stubbornly unreachable friend. Pouring myself a glass, I sat in my armchair across from Holmes and slowly sipped whilst tutting every now and again to remind him of my disapproval.

His increasing volume and savagery upon the instrument was proportional to my decreasing patience, and before I could come up with a true plan to improve his mood – at least enough to have an adult conversation – I had stepped across the rug and flung my whole weight unceremoniously upon his lap.

He half-heartedly continued playing over our heads, but after a few moments realised his protestations would be useless (or perhaps his arms simply got tired), and he lowered the abused violin into its case which lay alongside his armchair. A minute’s silence was broken by Holmes sighing with the exaggerated flourish of a snort.

‘Are you going to stay here all night, Watson?’ I couldn’t see his expression behind me, but I’m certain the question was accompanied by an overacted roll of the eyes as well.

‘I am prepared to do what I must to get you out of this dreadful mood. Unfortunately my irritation at that horrid screeching forced me to act without any subtlety.’ In fact, it was my currently intoxicated state that was primarily to blame, but I had to keep my head if I wished to have any effect on my friend’s distemper.

I heard a dull thud as his head hit the back of the chair. Turning on his lap and twisting to face him more directly, I brushed my fingers gently through the soft hair at his temples and kissed his lips, twice, three times, but they remained unyielding, his features hardened into that old mask of which I had seen far too much of late. ‘My dear Holmes,’ I whispered. ‘Please, tell me.’ I brushed my fingertip along the bridge of his nose and smoothed his untamed brows.

‘It really is nothing, Watson. Frankly, I should be ashamed of my distemper.’ He let out another sigh. ‘Lestrade – _Lestrade_ – you’re familiar with the good Inspector, no?’

‘We’ve known the man for nearly twenty years, Holmes. You may abandon the dramatic element just this once.’

‘Well, the Inspector – that is to say, Inspector _Lestrade_ –’

‘ _Holmes!_ ’

‘Alright! He, ah, well, you see, he…there was a case, and, er–’

‘Damn it, Holmes! I know perfectly well there was a case, you’ve been sending me odd little tasks to complete for you all week despite my telling you I’ve been especially busy with my practice!’ I adjusted myself so that I was facing Holmes completely, my knees resting on either side of his lap. ‘Now tell me what’s distressing you so much! I won’t laugh, my dear fellow – I won’t tell a soul.’

‘Goodness, you’ve had more than I thought,’ Holmes said, waving a hand in front of his nose. At a severe look from me, he tried shifting to avoid my eyes, but found my weight to be too great a match for him. He inhaled sharply and wrung the next sentence from his lips one strained word at a time:

‘ _Lestrade_ solved the case before _I_ did!’

I intended to improve his mood, truly I did. But the true embarrassment and shame on his face drew a chuckle from my lips, and though I tried to stifle it in the crook of his neck, he grew even more hurt by my betrayal, and attempted with renewed vigour to escape from under my weight.

‘Oh, my dear Holmes, I do apologise!’ I said, still pink in the face from amusement and the effects of too much brandy. ‘My good fellow, it was bound to happen eventually.’

Holmes’ face had reddened for an entirely different reason. ‘I fail to see anything humorous about it! I shall be the laughingstock of Scotland Yard – Lestrade will never let me forget his single victory over me.’

I kissed his neck. ‘He may well bring it up from time to time, Holmes, but surely you’re aware enough of your own victories? You’ve solved hundreds of cases, helped thousands upon thousands of people, and you’ve made dozens of inspectors look foolish on more occasions than I can count. You’re the cleverest man I know, if not the most modest.’

‘Do you truly believe it, Watson?’

‘Honestly, Holmes, I have practically made a living off publicly admiring you. You may accuse me of romanticism, but certainly not of outright mendacity.’

He squinted in disbelief, trying to detect mockery in my voice or laughter in my eyes, but found none. ‘As long as you come with me next time we are called to the Yard. I don’t believe I could face them alone, and anyway, they wouldn’t dare say a word with you present.’

‘Of course I shall.’ I rested my head on his shoulder once again and deeply inhaled the smell of his smoke-saturated dressing-gown. Holmes pressed a light kiss atop my head.

‘You were in rather high spirits when you came in, were you not?’

‘I didn’t think you noticed. In fact, I had a very relaxing night after a week of flu-ridden patients.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’

Nosing Holmes’ neck, I ran my fingers through his already-mussed hair. For the first time that night, he relaxed into the cushions and I took that as a sign I might be allowed to continue. I tongued hotly along his collarbone and Holmes hummed softly, holding me tightly against him. For an uncertain amount of time – I don’t believe either of us was sober enough to recall – we held each other there, our kisses gradually becoming more and more heated.

Pressing my tongue deeper still, I could feel him beginning to stir beneath me with interest. For a few minutes longer I kissed his lips and neck, running my hands through his hair and over his chest and torso, but never quite letting my hands fall to where Holmes wished them most.

‘This position doesn’t exactly suit my leg, old boy.’ I moved to get up, as did Holmes, but I bid him stay exactly where he was, and he looked at me with curiosity and amusement. ‘Why don’t you finish this?’ I suggested, handing him the remainder of my brandy glass. He quaffed it eagerly, replaced the glass on the side table, and cocked an eyebrow, legs spread wantonly.

‘Oh, don’t act like my spirits were the only thing you intended to raise when you walked through that door, John Watson.’

I rolled my eyes at his idea of humour and sat on the bit of available cushion between Holmes’ legs, facing away from him. Slowly, I bent to untie my shoes, taking my time in displaying a certain aspect of my anatomy to Holmes’ observant eyes.

‘You’re looking…very hale, Watson.’

‘I beg your pardon, is that a comment about the size of my arse?’

‘I mean to say, you are the very picture of health. You are neither pale nor lethargic, and yes, your shapely arse has also returned to its former glory.’

‘It’s just my thinning hair that disappoints you, then.’

Holmes landed a gentle slap upon my backside. ‘Permit me to pay you a single compliment, my dear Watson.’

I chuckled and shucked off my shoes. ‘Only if you permit me to indulge myself in satisfying a little curiosity of mine.’

Ever the scientist, Holmes was happy to oblige in assisting in my experimentation. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but add a few variables of his own. He ran his hands up and down my thighs, dragging his nails along the inseams of my trousers and causing a thrill to run through me. Slowly unbuttoning my waistcoat and pressing soft kisses behind my ear, Holmes whispered his anticipation and pressed the evidence of his arousal against the small of my back.

When he cupped my groin in his warm palm, however, I had to stop him – it wouldn’t do to lose my focus, fleeting as it already was in my current state. Using the arms of his chair to brace myself just inches over Holmes’ lap, I slowly lowered my arse over the bulge in his trousers.

‘God, Watson – I believe I have done you an injustice – I should have said it has even _exceeded_ its former glory.’

I rubbed against his hardening cock, causing him to release a string of pent-up curses. ‘Unbutton your flies, Holmes, before you do yourself an injury.’

‘Do myself an injury? I’m not the one grinding against my own prick!’ Holmes’ noise of amusement from the thought of such an image was cut off by a loud groan as he manoeuvred his erection into a more comfortable position. I couldn’t resist turning my head over my shoulder, and saw that beneath his thin undergarments, it lay swollen against his stomach, and as I began my ministrations once more, it bobbed in time with my movements.

I was quickly becoming aroused by Holmes’ breathless noises and the slight shifting of his hips as he attempted to press against me more than my trousers would allow.  If I wished to continue for any amount of time, I would have to keep my eyes forward and content myself with the feeling of his arousal thrusting between my buttocks.

Holmes’ hands wandered restlessly over my sides, thighs, and every part of my arse he could reach, finally alighting on my hipbones, which he used to pull me down against him more forcefully. I moved in small circular motions, then gave my shaking arms a rest and lowered the rest of my weight onto Holmes’ eager cock.

‘Watson, I’m so close to fucking you, please, please let me have you,’ he moaned softly, rutting against me as my movements slowed nearly to a stop.

‘Why, Holmes!’ I said in mock-surprise. ‘Could it be that nothing but my clothed backside, something you have seen most days for at least fifteen years, has excited you so?’

He grunted in admittance, and also in frustration with my teasing. ‘Your form is as beautiful in a tweed country suit as it is in evening dress, Watson,’ he breathed. ‘But I must admit, these trousers in particular have long inspired my thoughts along rather more debauched alleyways. Each time you wear them to dinner with me, and I pull out your chair for you – every door I open for you to watch you walk ahead of me – every play or opera we attend that fails to catch my interest, I spend admiring you, and wishing I could have you then and there, and tear those trousers from you which have so invariably ignited my arousal.’

Such a poetic confession from the great Sherlock Holmes, even if it did pertain to my arse, almost forced me to give in, but I remembered my desire to bring him to orgasm in this manner, with no real contact between our bodies. Reluctantly, I replied, ‘To answer your question, no, you may not have me, Holmes. You may imagine it if you wish, and imagine the figure beneath this fine evening dress, if it pleases you so.’

In order to clear my head somewhat and maintain my seemingly unruffled appearance (I knew Holmes could be made to feel even more stimulated by the contrast of my composure) I managed to light a nonchalant cigarette whilst continuing my agonisingly slow friction against Holmes’ cock. His moans began to escape his mouth with almost every exhale, turning to desperate whines. ‘I should like to place a bet with you, Holmes. I’d wager that I can make you come off before finishing my cigarette.’

‘I shouldn’t – _oh_ – encourage – your bad habits, Watson…’

‘If I can’t, you may have me any way you wish.’

This he couldn’t refuse. He seemed almost to recover himself, trying his utmost to still his hips and control his pounding heart. But his attempts were fruitless; he was already too close – his cock was trapped between my arse and his belly, and the slightest movement forced him closer to the precipice.

‘Have you no mercy,’ he breathed as I sped my hips yet again, driving back into his lap with renewed purpose.

‘Certainly not, my dear Holmes.’ I smiled, feeling his legs shake beneath me, warning of his impending orgasm.

‘Please, please…’ he begged me.

‘Would you prefer I stopped?’

‘ _Oh!_ ’ he cried in anguish. ‘Don’t you _dare._ ’ Moments later, I felt him buck against me, nearly lifting me off his lap with his convulsions. I allowed him to rut against me until he was fully spent and his moans had reduced to gasps, carefully putting out the cigarette which threatened to singe my fingertips. Turning towards him once more, I could see that his eyes had fallen shut and his face, shimmering with perspiration, was the picture of perfect pleasure. He pressed me to him with a strength for which I would not have given him credit after such an exertion, nose digging against my neck. ‘I hope I didn’t ruin your evening clothes which I spent so much time in praising,’ he mumbled.

‘It certainly wouldn’t be the first time, Holmes,’ I said in amusement. ‘Well, did I manage to improve your disposition at all?’

Finally gathering the energy which he so vainly sought earlier, he pushed me away with a snort, and dragged me up to my bedroom with some comment about his perceived success of the experiment, and wondering if my hypothesis involved his being induced to ‘return the favour’.


End file.
